Manwe's Mission
by Cubeleg
Summary: NEWLY REVISED! What happens when Lord Manwe, ruler of the elves in Valinor sends two elf maidens to fetch a jewel for his wife? It would be simple, except that he accidentally sends along the scribe. First two chapters fully posted.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This is a double disclaimer. Not only does no one wish to take the honor belonging to Tolkien for writing the Silmarillion, but I must say I did not write this. My sister and a friend wrote it and grudgingly consented to allow me to post it. That is the reason for your coming treat. 

**Manwë's Mission**

By the two Vanyar Princesses

Elindoras Linwë

Daughters of Ingwë

An Account of the Quest Given to Them By Manwe

Their Journeys and Adventures in Middle-earth

During the First Age

(Appendix A courtesy of the Scribe in the Court of Varda

Whose name is so unimportant it will not even be included here)

**Prologue **

**464 The First Age**

Manwë, King of the Valar and the Lord of Valinor, had a problem. He sat on his ornate chair in his throne room deep in thought. His guards stood near the doorway, watching him somewhat warily and wondering what he was planning next. Being obedient and respectful guards, however, they kept their faces impassive and did not interrupt the meditation of their king.

Visions of his queen, the Lady Varda, flitted through Lord Manwë's head. She was so beautiful and so wise. He had wed her at the very beginning of time, and for many long years she had been his bride. Surely she deserved something in return—especially since their anniversary was coming up. But no present he could think of seemed worthy of her. She already had practically everything, and besides, he wanted something very rare and special for her . . . as rare and special as she was to him. Her voice was sweeter than the Song of the Ainur, as flowing and smooth as fine limpë. She spoke many grave and wonderful words, and he often marveled at her wisdom. Surely there could be no queen more fitting to rule Arda than the Lady Varda. She was so sweet and graceful, and her eyes sparkled like . . . like a _Silmaril_.

"I've got it!" he shouted, bounding out of his chair.

The guards jumped and turned startled glances on the king, forgetting momentarily to retain their impassive countenance.

"Did my lord give me an order?" the leader asked.

Manwë shook his head.

"No, I was merely thinking out loud."

Manwë dropped back into his throne. The idea was splendid, but how to go about it? Who could he entrust with such a great mission? The most trustworthy people in Valinor . . . of course!

He turned to the nearest guard.

"Fetch me the Lady Elindoras and the Lady Linwë from their apartments," he ordered.

The guard bowed and left.

Meanwhile, the Lady Elindoras and the Lady Linwë sat embroidering in their apartments with Queen Varda. Suddenly Linwë heard a soft knock at the door.

"Who is it?"

"An important visitor."

Elindoras and Linwë immediately recognized the voice as that of Manwë's chief scribe, with whom they had many unpleasant encounters in the past.

"What do you want?" Elindoras asked with a sigh.

"I want to come in."

"Yes, I know," she said, attempting to speak patiently. "But there must be a reason why you want in."

"Open the door and you'll find out."

Before either maiden could reply, there came a squeal from the scribe and a firm rap on the door.

"May I enter upon the king's business?" a stern voice inquired.

"Certainly," Varda replied. "Come in."

The chief guard strode into the room, his cloak swirling behind him. He gave a profound bow.

"King Manwë wishes speech with the ladies Elindoras and Linwë," he said. "He desires your presence in the throne room immediately. Will you accompany me?"

Elindoras and Linwë cast Varda a discreet glance. She nodded her approval.

"It would be our honor," Linwë spoke for them.

The two maidens followed the guard into the hall, where the scribe was still crouching near the door. In their haste they barely gave him a glance, and did not notice when he trailed behind them cautiously.

Upon entering the throne room, the scribe somehow slipped in unnoticed by the guards—or perhaps they thought he was one of the party. He hovered behind Elindoras and Linwë, and somehow escaped their attention.

Linwë and Elindoras both knelt before Manwë, where he sat majestically upon his throne, robed in splendor. His circlet of jewels glittered upon his brow.

"What does our lord wish of us?" Elindoras asked, awed, as usual, by his mere presence.

"You are the two most trustworthy elves in all Valinor," Manwë began, motioning the guards to leave. "Therefore, I am about to entrust you with a great secret and mission to fulfill. You must swear never to breathe a word of this to anyone on pain of death."

Elindoras and Linwë gave each other a sideways glance.

Manwë continued. "So before I go any further I must have you swear an oath. You will repeat after me: I (say your name) swear never to speak of the quest my Lord Manwë has entrusted me with, not to Vala, Demon, Elf, or Man as yet unborn, or any creature great or small, good or evil, that time should bring forth into the end of days, not until the Valar have released me from my bondage. I call Ilúvatar as my witness. If I break my oath may I fall into the dark abyss."

"We swear," Elindoras and Linwë echoed in a shaky voice.

"Never to tell until I want to," the scribe hissed helpfully.

Manwë appeared pleased.

"Now I will proceed to tell you of this quest. I am sure you realize it is the anniversary of Queen Varda and I. For many days I have wondered if there was any gift in all Arda suitable for her. You will be pleased to know I have finally found something worthy of her. Your quest is this—to journey to Middle-earth and fetch that gift for me."

"What is the gift my Lord wishes?" Elindoras asked nervously.

"A Silmaril."

Linwë and Elindoras gasped and took an involuntary step backwards, almost tripping over the scribe.

"Did my lord say a Silmaril?" Linwë asked.

Manwë nodded gravely.

"But does my lord not realize the Silmarils are held by the great enemy Melkor—they are forged into his Iron Crown? Melkor dwells on the wastes of Angband, in the mighty fortress of Thangorodrim. And our powers do not match his. Besides, even if we did recover the Silmaril, you know Féanor and his seven sons swore that terrible oath. They would kill us without hesitation if they found we held one of the Silmarils."

This news did not seem to perturb Manwë.

"You will manage," he assured them. "I have told a learned Maia in Middle-earth of your coming. She is Melian the Maia of Doriath, wife of Elwë Singollo—or Thingol, as he is often called in his realm. I shall send you to Doriath and you will proceed from there. You needn't worry about Varda missing you. I shall tell her I had to send you upon a mission. She'll understand. She always does.

"I have one more instruction before you go. There is one Silmaril I do _not_ want. A hairline crack runs down it—probably much too slight for the elvish eye to see . . . but it is there. Féanor's chisel slipped while he was fashioning that Silmaril. And although I was the first to notice its blemish, I never said anything about it, seeing he was never very good at controlling his temper. But back to the point: you may bring either of the other two Silmarils, but absolutely _not_ that one. Only the best for Lady Varda. Is that clear?"

Elindoras and Linwë seemed too unnerved to speak. It was then the scribe grew bolder.

"You wouldn't have any limpë, on hand, would you?" he asked hopefully, plucking at Elindoras's sleeve.

Both maidens turned to stare at him in horror. But before they could reply, Manwë lifted his hands and a sudden gust of wind shot through the room. Outside the guards heard a thump and looked fearfully around them. There was a blinding flash of light, and Elindoras and Linwë disappeared. So did the scribe.

Manwë smiled and rubbed his hands together.


	2. Chapter 1 Part 1

**Manwë's Mission**

By the two Vanyar Princesses

Elindoras Linwë

Daughters of Ingwë

An Account of the Quest Given to Them By Manwe

Their Journeys and Adventures in Middle-earth

During the First Age

(Appendix A courtesy of the Scribe in the Court of Varda

Whose name is so unimportant it will not even be included here)

**Double disclaimer: #1Tolkien owns the world spoken of in the Silmarillion. (Though he may not have discovered the whole story of the Silmarils, as you find if you read this "eye-witness" account.**

**#2 Sad to say, I, Cubeleg, did not write this story. I am merely posting it for my sister and a friend.**

AN: the scribe is deemed so unimportant his name is never mentioned. 

Chapter 1

Part 1

Spring 464

Manwë's satisfied face and the throne room of Valinor whirled dizzyingly. Elindoras felt something like a jolt in the stomach. A strong wind whipped her hair against her cheeks and tore the breath from her throat. She felt as if she were choking, and for a moment wanted to scream. Then the swirling grayness deepened into dark green of foliage, and the wind died to an eerie silence.

Elindoras found herself kneeling on muddy ground thickly strewn with dead leaves. She rose slowly and turned to face Linwë. Linwë returned her gaze. Her face looked perfectly white, and Elindoras suddenly realized she was shaking all over.

"Do not question the will of the Valar." Linwë's lips formed the well-worn phrase. "Do not question . . ."

"The will of the Valar," Elindoras finished softly. For some reason she felt the urge to keep her voice low. "Where are we?" she added, starting as a limb creaked overhead.

"In Doriath. That is where the Lord Manwë told us we would appear," Linwë said sensibly. "Now we must find Melian the Maia whom he spoke of."

"Yes," Elindoras agreed. "But how?"

The two maidens glanced around them. Dark, towering trees marched away on every side into dense gloom. Branches tossed overhead, sending shadows stretching and dancing across the forest floor. A heavy silence lay over everything. There was something oppressive and menacing in that silence. The trees seemed to crowd more closely around them, and Elindoras felt the back of her neck prickle.

Suddenly the stillness was shattered by a small, plaintive whimper. Elindoras and Linwë both whirled and found the scribe crouched behind them.

"Oh no," Elindoras moaned, clapping her hand to her forehead.

She immediately recalled seeing the scribe in the throne room—right before the Lord Manwë had sent them off. The shock of their short yet demanding trip had banished this memory from her mind—for she had more pressing things (such as her fear) to occupy her. But now it returned in a rush.

"How did you get here?" Linwë demanded, eyeing the scribe coldly.

"I don't know," he whined. "I was just an innocent little scribe, begging for a cool drink. I wasn't harming anyone. Then there was a flash of light that hurt my eyes, so I shut them. When I opened them again, I saw all these dark, scary trees." He gave another whimper. "Are we dead?"

"No," Linwë said shortly. "We're in Middle-earth. Do you not recollect Lord Manwë's words? You must have overheard the whole conversation.

"You didn't belong in the Lord Manwë's throne room in the first place, you know. And now you are suffering for it. If you hadn't snooped and pried into matters that didn't concern you, you'd be safe and happy back in Valinor. But instead you are coming with us, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," the scribe blubbered. "I'll never do it again. I want to go home! Please let me go back. I said I was sorry! I don't like these trees," his voice grew muffled as he buried his face in his arms. "They don't like me, either. They seem angry."

"Not angry," Elindoras said. "But watchful."

"I want to go home," the scribe repeated.

"You can't," Linwë told him. "So stop sniveling and come along, or we shall have to leave you. Would you like to stay by yourself all night in these dark woods? Who knows what sort of creatures lurk here."

Elindoras and Linwë started forward. Neither turned to see if the scribe was following. They did not really care. But the thought of strange creatures in the night brought the scribe to his senses. He scrambled after them.

Silence spread over the forest again, broken only by Elindoras's and Linwë's muffled footsteps and an occasional sob from the scribe.

"What direction do we go?" Elindoras whispered, moving closer to Linwë.

"I don't know. Which way does Menegroth lie?"

"Manwë never told us. Now I wish he would have."

"So do I."

"I wish even more he would have let us arrive at the Gates of Menegroth, not dropped us in the woods somewhere."

"Again, so do I. But do not question the will of the Valar."

"Of course, sister. My apologies."

"Save them for Lord Manwë."

"Perhaps I will."

Elindoras paused and pointed toward a shaft of liquidy green sunlight that pierced through the canopy of the forest. "Look ahead."

"Let us make toward it," Linwë suggested. "Perhaps we shall stumble upon a clearing."

A rising wind began to play through the branches of the trees, causing crazy shadows to flicker around the maidens. A faint roar seemed to rise from the dim forest.

"Their voices are threatening," Elindoras muttered. An unexplainable sense of panic gripped her. "Let's run."

"No!" Linwë grabbed her hand. "Stay calm."

Behind them the scribe screamed and scuttled forward. A huge branch fell crashing onto the place where he had stood.

"Quiet," Elindoras hissed, seizing the scribe's arm and dragging him along. "Don't frighten the trees."

"Frighten them! I wish Lord Manwë never even thought of this mission," the scribe snarled.

"Do not question the will of the Valar," Linwë murmured. Another branch fell and they both jumped.

"Do not question the will of the Valar," Elindoras echoed.

"Do not question—" they began together, when there was a great crack of wood splitting and a limb fell across the path ahead. Its green, leafy branches brushed against Elindoras and Linwë, nearly knocking them off their feet. Dust and bits of leaves swirled around them.

"Do not question the will of the Valar!" Elindoras fairly shrieked. She and Linwë swerved around the fallen tree and bolted off through the woods at a most undignified pace, the scribe wailing behind them. Branches whipped against their cheeks, and Elindoras twisted her ankle tripping over a protruding root.

Suddenly the dense woods began to fall away, and brilliant sunshine lay caressingly on their shoulders. Elindoras and Linwë slowed to a walk.

The trees were green and friendly here. Grass sprang up between them, where sunlight could reach it. Small patches of buds opened into delicate flowers. In the distance they heard the soft babble of a stream. The smell of wet dirt and growing things hung around them, warm and earthy.

Near a stand of white birches ahead, a girl and a man stood speaking earnestly together. Suddenly they both glanced up, and the man rushed off into the woods. There was something strange about his gait, Elindoras thought. But she pushed this from her mind as the girl came toward them, half-running, half-dancing.

The girl's heavy, inky-black braids bounced over her shoulders and streamed nearly to her knees. A brilliant green dress clung around her graceful form, its low collar revealing her slender white neck. Her clear voice rose in laughter.

She halted before them and Elindoras realized how tall she was—like a straight young birch. When Elindoras looked into her pale, faultless face, she wondered if this girl was the princess of Doriath. Tales of her beauty (for it was said Thingol's daughter of Doriath was the fairest elf maid in Middle-earth) had reached even to the Halls of the Valar. And this girl was beautiful. She had no ornament save an emerald on a gold chain about her throat, yet needed none. For her eyes were brighter than any gem.

Elindoras blushed slightly and glanced at Linwë. Linwë's hair hung disheveled and leaves were caught in it. Her gray cloak was stained and battered from their panicked flight through the woods. Streaks of dirt and cuts (from overhanging branches she had not been able to dodge) creased her face. Elindoras pushed a strand of limp hair out of her own eyes, and looking down, saw the hem of her dress dripped with mud. She knew Linwë's appearance mirrored her own.

"Greetings," the girl said, suddenly grave. "I am Lúthien Tinuviel, daughter of Thingol Graycloak—King of Doriath. Melian the Maia is my mother."

"Greetings, Lúthien," Linwë replied. "I am Linwë, daughter of Ingwë, High King of the Vanyar. This is Elindoras, my sister."

Lúthien took a step forward, and smiling, lay a friendly hand on both of their arms.

"I am delighted to meet you, Elindoras and Linwë. My mother knew of your coming with her foresight and sent me to find you. All lies in preparation for you at Doriath. Will you be my guests?"

"The delight is all mine," Elindoras said, very relieved that no questions need be answered and no explanations made. "I thank you for your generosity. May the Valar bless you for it."

"Your journey has been long?" Lúthien inquired sympathetically, as they followed her across the clearing.

"It seemed long, anyway," Elindoras replied, unwilling to explain their travel-stained appearance.

"You brought a servant?" Lúthien continued, glancing at the scribe. "My mother did not foresee that."

"It was rather unforeseen," Linwë explained briefly.

Lúthien nodded. She tactfully plied them with no further questions.

"Who was that man you spoke with?" Linwë asked presently, recalling the figure that had run off into the woods.

"Man?" Lúthien asked. "What man?"

"Or elf—" Elindoras said, "Though from his movements I guess he was mortal. He had not the grace of the elven-kind."

"Oh, yes," Lúthien said hurriedly, waving her hand. "He was merely one of the low-down commoners of our realm. Maybe he was out hunting."

Elindoras and Linwë lapsed into a meditative silence. If the man had been a low-down commoner, why had they seen Lúthien engaged in conversation with him? But they decided to return her favor and asked no difficult or probing questions.

The scribe had fallen behind.

"Is it far to Doriath?" he whined. "Might you tell a poor, foot-sore scribe if it is not much further?"

"It is not much further," Elindoras replied coldly. She waved a hand to hush his protests. "Is it, Lúthien?"

"No, we shall soon reach the bridge over the river Esgalduin," Lúthien replied.

This meant nothing to the scribe, but from the faces of Linwë and Elindoras he judged it best to keep his silence.

The forest was thinning away when the babble of a brook grew louder ahead. Elindoras glimpsed its shimmering line. Willows hung low over its banks, their pale, feathery branches trailing in the water.

"Come," Lúthien said. "There is a footbridge further upstream."


	3. Chapter 1 Part 2

**Disclaimer: #1 I did not create the Silmarillion. This story is merely an imitation of that work of art.**

**#2 I did not even write this story. I am posting it for my sister and a friend. (Though I must admit I helped with some of the ideas.)**

**AN: THE SCRIBE HAS NO NAME! He was deemed far too insignificant for such an honor. **

**This is you flight attendant speaking, please remember, turn on your humor, sarcasm and tongue-in-cheek detectors. Thank you, now have a laugh filled flight.**

Chapter 1

Part 2

Elindoras and Linwë soon caught full view of the stream, gurgling over its pebbly bed. Patterns of light and shade rested on it, and the rushing water was flecked with fallen leaves. A quaint stone bridge lay shaded by the willows.

At the bottom of a steep, muddy bank, a man sat crouched at the edge of the water. His back was toward them, but from his tattered and stained clothes Elindoras and Linwë saw he was the very man they had seen talking with Lúthien earlier. They heard a sharp intake of breath at their sides. But when they turned quickly, Lúthien's face was expressionless . . . save one cheek muscle that twitched convulsively.

"Shall we cross the footbridge?" she asked, her voice controlled—perhaps too much so.

The man started and glanced over his shoulder. His face was so noble and handsome that at first glance Elindoras took him for an elf. Only when he looked into her eyes did she realize he was but a mortal. His cloak and tunic were worn, as if he had wandered in the wild long, and his unshaven face heavily lined and weary, as if he had witnessed terrible things, or perhaps suffered them himself. Yet he was very grave, and an air of nobility hung around him like a king's mantle. Elindoras felt he must be a prince among his own people—certainly not a "low-down commoner," anyway.

The man nodded politely, avoiding Lúthien's eyes. Elindoras noted with interest that a bright red flush was creeping up the girl's white neck and suffusing her cheeks.

"What are you doing?" Linwë inquired.

The man sat for a moment, looking at them blankly.

"Fishing," he answered at last.

One of Linwë's eyebrows quirked upwards. "Fishing?" she repeated.

"Why yes, my ladies."

"Let us go," Lúthien suggested nervously. "My mother awaits us."

"I would accompany you," Linwë replied. "But I must speak with this mortal for a moment. I have never before seen fishing conducted in such a manner and am curious as to how one goes about it."

She turned to the man.

"Yes sir, please enlighten us—how do you fish?"

The man opened his mouth and shut it. He was silent again, but the expression on his face did not change.

"Fishing, my ladies, is the simplest thing in the world!" he exclaimed suddenly.

"Is it?" Linwë asked, her eyes bright with interest. "How so?"

"Because, my lady, fish are very careless creatures with small minds. It takes no great skill or effort to catch one."

"Indeed?"

"Quite so."

"No effort?"

"None whatsoever."

Linwë's eyes flickered. "Are their minds so small that they will leap into your lap while you sit motionless on a bank? I do not understand.

"Do you not? That is too bad. Now if you will excuse me . . ." the man began to back away.

"Half a moment, sir. You still have not showed us how to fish," Linwë reminded him.

"Nay, I have not, have I? How thoughtless of me."

"Yes?" Linwë urged.

The man was quiet again, and this time he bit his lip.

"Oh come now!" Lúthien burst out with startling fervency. "There will be plenty of time for trivial matters such as fishing once you have met my mother. Have I not told you she awaits your coming? When you are settled in and have spoken with her, perhaps I shall have you instructed in the art of fishing to your heart's content.

"And in Doriath, we are not so poor that we must needs scour the streams for our meat. There is hunting to provide us with game—and that is a much more noble sport. Perhaps you would do better to engage in that."

"But there is not time for this at the present. Now come. Are you not weary and hungry?"

"Surely," Elindoras said soothingly. "But I would not pass up such a fine opportunity of learning how to catch fish while doing nothing. How it will revolutionize the fishing industry! Fishing, you see, has long interested my sister and I."

"Has it really?" asked the scribe, and received a jab in the ribs for his trouble.

"Now if the mortal would hurry with his instruction we could soon accompany you," she finished. Both turned their rapt attention back to the man, and Elindoras gave him an encouraging nod.

He swallowed.

"Well," he began slowly. "First you wade into water . . ." and he proceeded to do so until it overflowed into his boots.

"But you were not in the water when we first saw you," Linwë objected.

"I was preparing to enter," the man retorted. "Now watch."

He sloshed around until he had found a suitable position and stood poised. The running water must have been quite icy, for in a moment his teeth began to chatter. Another moment crawled by. Lúthien fidgeted at their side.

"Watch what?" Linwë demanded impatiently.

The man lifted his hand for silence.

Suddenly a silver streak of a fish darted through the clear water, carried along with the current. The man lunged forward, hands groping for it. He tripped suddenly on the rocky streambed and pitched forward. Elindoras barely stifled a gasp as he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

He came up choking and staggered to the shore. Elindoras and Linwë watched gravely as shoved away the lank hair plastered to his cheeks and wiped the water dripping from his face.

Linwë's mouth twitched slightly.

"I thought you said fishing was the simplest thing in the world."

"And that it takes no skill or effort to catch them," Elindoras added.

The man shook himself like an irate dog and began to squeeze the water out of his cloak.

"And someone told me fish are very careless creatures of small mind," Linwë continued conversationally.

"The cold makes me sluggish," the man said shortly, continuing to wring out his clothes.

"Hmmm."

"I was under the impression you caught fish in nets," Elindoras said thoughtfully, when the man had somewhat dried himself.

"Oh yes!" he immediately brightened. "That's what I was doing when you first arrived, ladies. I mean," he stammered. "I was sitting on the bank and fishing with a hook and line."

"Were you?" Elindoras asked.

"Yes."

Elindoras raised her eyebrows. "Where's the hook and line?"

The man stared at her for a moment, stunned by such an obvious question.

"I—I don't have it anymore," he said slowly.

"I see that."

"Did you drop it?" the scribe asked.

The man flashed him a look of grateful relief.

"As a matter of fact, your friend is right. Your arrival startled me so much I dropped it into the stream."

"Oh really," Linwë said sarcastically. "I'm sorry. Can you make a new one?"

"Well . . ."

"You obviously can, I'm sure, as you apparently did have the one you dropped in the first place. I would love to watch you make another. Perhaps we could learn something. Do proceed."

"But . . ."

"Go on, do. Don't mind us. We're all waiting for you."

"A hook and line," the man muttered under his breath. "A hook and line."

For the first time he met Lúthien's eyes in a pleading, self-conscious look as he groped toward his breast and drew out a long strand of inky black hair. He knotted it around a short, heavy stick.

"Now for the hook," Linwë said encouragingly.

"A hook . . ." the man murmured, gnawing his lip. He gathered some pieces of bark and began to fashion them into a crude sort of hook, which he tied to the hair. This he cast this into the stream. It bobbed for a moment and sunk slowly.

"The fish are going to bite that?" Linwë asked quizzically.

"Bait!" the man clapped his hand to his forehead. "Of course."

He reeled the line in hastily and rolled over a rotting log. Elindoras shut her eyes as he began to paw through the dirt, guessing what he was after. A small plop told her the hook had been cast back into the stream. She opened her eyes and found the man squatting on the mossy bank. He rocked on his heels, appearing well pleased with himself, though he shivered whenever a breath of wind stirred his drying clothes and ruffled his hair.

"Now, my ladies," he said. "We wait for the fish."

"How long will we wait?"

"Not long, I hope."

Elindoras and Linwë stood in silence. Lúthien was beside them, looking white and desperate. Only the scribe seemed to be enjoying the performance.

The strand of hair swirled in the lazy current, teased back and forth by the pull of the water. It looked strangely strong and resilient, Elindoras noted.

"Where did you get that strand of hair?" she asked aloud. "It looks almost like elf-hair."

"I don't know," the man replied uneasily. "Perhaps it is."

"Where did you get it?" Elindoras repeated. She could not imagine an elf giving a mortal anything, much less a strand of his own hair.

"I found it in the woods," the man said.

"Shall we go—" Lúthien began yet again, when a vicious jerk at the line saved the man from further embarrassment. The strand of hair strained—yet did not break—a fact which further proved it to be elven hair.

"You've got one! You've got one!" the scribe squealed, fairly dancing on the bank.

The man's hardened face cracked into a smile, and he began tugging the line in. The fish struggled and fought as he towed it forward cautiously. Suddenly something gave way—most likely the hook, Elindoras thought, which had never seemed very sturdy in the first place. The line slackened quickly. The man hauled up the dripping strand of hair. Splinters of wood from the hook were still knotted to the line, but the fish was gone.

Only Linwë dared to break the moment of shocked silence. "I thought you said fishing was the simplest thing in the world."

"Then why don't you try it, my lady," the man snapped, and shoving the stick into her hands, he disappeared into the brush

"I apologize," Lúthien told them, gathering herself up with effort. "He is a rude and uncouth mortal, to be sure—one of the 'low-down commoners' of our realm, as I told you."

"Don't mention it," Linwë said quickly. "We were provoking him."

"We are not offended, for it is our fault, not yours. We were determined to hear him out in spite of your sensible protests," Elindoras hastened to add. "If anything, we ought to apologize for keeping you in his company for so long."

The three maidens, with the scribe at their heels, crossed the footbridge and proceeded toward Menegroth, the encounter almost forgotten. Yet the memory of the Lúthien's blushing face and the mysterious, inky-black strand of hair in the possession of the woodsman lingered in Elindoras's mind. And she could not fully rid herself of it.


	4. Chapter 1 Part 3

**Disclaimer: #1 This story is merely an imitation of that work of art, the Silmarillion, not the original.**

**#2 Nor did I write this story. I am merely posting it for my sister and a friend. (Though I must admit I helped with some of the ideas.)**

**What happens when a scribe tries to be polite and forgets tact? Find out…**

Chapter 1

Part 3

"Greetings, my ladies!"

A clear, high voice—unmistakably elvish—caused Elindoras and Linwë to turn quickly.

A smooth, green clearing sloped away to the great river Esgalduin that flowed sluggishly between its banks. A large bridge spanned it, flanked by guards.

On the other shore sprawled a great rocky hill—the capital of Doriath, Menegroth of the Thousand Caves, home of Thingol Grey-cloak. Elindoras and Linwë had heard many tales of its beauty—and it was here, in the Courts of Thingol, that the splendor of Valinor was almost rivaled. For though Thingol had never beheld the Halls of the Valar, his wife, Melian the Maia, had brought a taste of Valinor to him. And now, in the wilds of Middle-earth, their little realm flourished.

The Hidden Realm, it was called . . . for the Girdle of Melian protected it from the outer world. None could enter unbidden, and those who did so seldom returned to tell of it. When they did, their tales were not pleasant . . . strange, shadowy stories of a maze of horror where terror and madness walked—an unseen wall of shadow and bewilderment. Wanderers shunned it, and the bravest warriors around the fireside blanched at the mention of its name.

So Doriath lay hidden, untouched by the wars and darkness of Melkor or the blood feuds and Kin-slayings of Féanor's sons. And as yet no enemy had been able to thrust his way into the realm, though it was rumored Melian strove daily with the power of the Dark Enemy.

Elindoras quickly banished these thoughts as a tall, brawny elf-warrior strode into view. A fresh wind whipped his dark hair against his cheeks and sent his green cloak billowing behind him. His piercing gaze swept over them. For a moment Elindoras looked into his frank, gray eyes and felt an immediate liking for him.

"Your mother sent me to fetch you, Lady." He dropped on one knee before Lúthien in a swift, graceful gesture and kissed her hand. "You were gone longer than she had expected. She feared you had lost your way in the woods."

The elf sprang lightly back to his feet and turned to Elindoras and Linwë.

"I am Beleg Strongbow."

For the first time Elindoras noted the mighty bow slung over his shoulder, its dark, burnished wood carved with strangely twisting runes.

"I am Elindoras of the Vanyar," she replied politely. "And this is my sister, Linwë."

"Is my mother waiting for us in her apartments, Beleg?" Lúthien inquired, as he fell in with them.

"Yes, my lady. She asked me to escort you thither."

They crossed a bridge spanning the Esgalduin. Elindoras eyed the rushing water below, glad to see thick pillars upholding the stone walkway. As they passed, the guards on the bridge drew themselves up higher and looked stonily over their heads to the dim line of the forest beyond.

"Hello!" the scribe cried without warning, grabbing the limp arm of the nearest guard and pumping it in greeting.

Muffling a gasp of horror, Elindoras snatched him away. The guard's arm dropped back to his side. Not a muscle of his face moved, and his eyes kept the same distant, uninterested expression. But Elindoras caught the faintest curl of disgust on his lips, and this one sign of life interested her.

She kept near the scribe as they finished crossing the bridge, afraid that he might try to make the acquaintance of the other guards. Fortunately Beleg and Lúthien had not seemed to notice, though perhaps they had seen but had abstained from remarking on it out of kindness.

"Why can't I be polite?" the scribe whimpered.

"You're not being polite," Elindoras hissed. "Those guards are not there for your amusement. They have a duty to perform."

"I know. I was merely helping them perform that duty. They're here to greet us, aren't they?"

"Most certainly not. They are here to guard the bridge."

"And if you don't keep your hands off them," Linwë added. "Perhaps you shall find yourself pushed into the river or skewered on one of the spears."

She pointed out an especially formidable looking one, (held by an even more formidable looking elf) and this seemed to end the scribe's bout of friendliness.

After crossing the bridge, Linwë and Elindoras followed Lúthien and Beleg toward the great gates of Menegroth.

The guards who stood by the gate looked even taller than the first, and the expressions on their faces were positively menacing. Perhaps remaining motionless for so many years had made them rather cynical, Elindoras thought. She wondered if they ever grew tired of standing ramrod straight and longed to stretch or shift into a more comfortable position. Did they ever have trouble keeping their faces grave? She looked at the impassive features of one guard and wondered if his hard lips and set jaw _could_ twist into a smile. Maybe he had scowled for so long he'd forgotten how. She wanted to relay these thoughts to Linwë but feared being overheard by Beleg or Lúthien.

When they entered Menegroth, Elindoras swiftly gathered her rambling thoughts. She and Linwë hurried after the others down several dark, winding passages cut out in the living rock. The air seemed fresher (and colder) ahead, and Elindoras wondered if they were making toward a wide chamber. A faint gleam of light pierced the darkness of the halls.

Suddenly Elindoras and Linwë found themselves in a huge, vaulted room. Massive beech trees towered into the sky, their silent shadows lying across the room. A faint golden radiance seemed to shine from the depths of their trunks.

"It's a forest," Linwë breathed. "A forest, inside a cave?"

"Look closer," Beleg urged them. "Touch one."

Elindoras brushed her finger down the trunk of the nearest tree. It was cold and smooth beneath her fingertips. She turned back to Beleg, who laughed at the startled expression on her face.

"They're . . ." she glanced up at the ceiling. The branches of the trees spread out, supporting the roof. "They're _pillars_."

"Pillars," Linwë echoed. "Carved into the likeness of beech trees."

"Fair, are they not?" Beleg asked softly. "More fair than the woods of Neldoreth beneath the sky are the stone forests of Thingol Greycloak that lie below the earth. You behold the craft of the dwarves, a people skilled with stone and precious gems. Thingol hired them to help him fashion the Halls of Menegroth."

Elindoras privately found the blue sky a much more pleasing canopy than the cold, dim stone, but she could not deny the stark, eerie beauty of this woods beneath the earth. The trees rose in silent black columns, their pale inner light illuminating silver fountains that played around them into marble basins. The floors were paved with many-colored stones. Above the tinkle of the fountains rose another song, faint—yet as they listened, rising—and strangely haunting. It was a song she had often heard before, the song of the nightingales in the gardens of Lórien.

"Come," Beleg said. "I will take you to our queen. She has waited long for your coming."

Elindoras and Linwë followed their guides through the darkness. Elindoras longed to study the beauty of Menegroth, for each turn held some new marvel. The walls were carved cunningly with strange birds and beasts peering out from tangles of vines and flowers. As they followed Beleg another voice rose, blending with the alluring song of the nightingales.

This voice was piercingly sweet and brought tears to the eyes of the maidens. Even Linwë, who had great skill with harp and song, knew she could never equal its beauty. It was the voice of Melian the Maia, who sang as she had sung for the Valar at the mingling of the lights, when a deep silence fell over Valinor as her first note rose in the dawn of time.

"That is my mother," Lúthien whispered. She nodded to Beleg, who dropped back. Elindoras motioned for the scribe to do the same.

The three maids passed through an open doorway and into the chamber of Melian.

The cold stone walls of Melian's chamber were hung with tapestries. Elindoras scanned them disinterestedly, noting they appeared to portray the history of Middle-earth's making. The soft pale green and blue cloth backgrounds were emblazoned with bright colors and shot through with gold and silver thread.

Elindoras's attention was quickly drawn toward an ornate chair at the far end of the room, beside a wide window overlooking a terraced garden cut out in the hillside. In the half-light of evening Melian the Maia—Queen of Doriath—sat.

She lifted her eyes slowly, and Elindoras stared into their depths. She knew the Valar and the Maiar were spirits that could take on many forms, but to her Melian appeared as a beautiful woman. A queen's crown encrusted with gems glittered on her white brow, and a faint light seemed to shine from her face and illuminate the room. Her sea-green eyes were deep as the pools round the Island of the Teleri, full of dim shadows and secrets no mortal mind could fathom. Wisdom lay in those eyes, much sorrow and knowledge. They were vast and icy as the cold sea or a great abyss . . . For a moment Elindoras thought she were sinking into the their depths, She felt that she was only a thin, fluttering autumn leaf—pale and transparent—and naked beneath Melian's gaze.

Melian had not the beauty of Varda—the blinding beauty that the lips of the Children of Ilúvatar could never proclaim in its fullness—but she gave the maidens almost the same sense of awe that they felt in the presence of the Valar. Elindoras found herself sinking to her knees and bowing her head reverently. Linwë knelt beside her. Only Lúthien went to stand behind her mother's chair.

"Greetings, Elindoras and Linwë of the Vanyar. I have waited long—but you have come to us at last."

Melian's lips did not move, yet Elindoras knew the words were hers.

Afterwards Elindoras never felt sure whether she actually heard Melian's voice, or if it was only her expressive eyes that spoke—placing the thoughts into the mind of her hearers.

Then Melian stretched out her hand, motioning them both to rise.

"I am not a sorceress Elindoras, and that you know right well. I speak to you not through dark magic and enchantments—but with the gift the Valar gave our kind."

Elindoras started, wondering if she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

"Forgive me," she stammered. Again she had the uncomfortable feeling Melian's strange, sea green eyes could see right into her inmost being. She sensed Melian knew everything about her—perhaps even more than Elindoras knew about herself. She was not exactly sure she liked the feeling. It was one thing to have Varda, her mistress, see into her mind—quite another this stranger.

Melian looked at the two maidens and her face softened into a smile.

"I know why you have come, Elindoras and Linwë," Melian began gently. "The Lord Manwë spoke to me in my dreams. He told me of your mission, and that I was to aid you as I could."

She let her eyes drift over them slowly.

"But you, Elindoras, you think that I cannot aid you."

She paused when Elindoras blushed painfully.

"And you are right. I can do nothing against the power of the Dark Lord—save to keep him from my realm—to keep it hidden from his eyes. And that may only be for a little while. His power is waxing, while mine grows faint."

"What can we do, my lady?" Linwë asked tremblingly. "Manwë told us you would give us aid."

"Nay," Melian shook her head. "There is little aid I can give you against the might of the Dark Lord. There is none in Middle-earth that can match him—not all the glorious armies of the Elves in Beleriand, nor the Three Houses of the Edain—even if they would unite and fight together."

"But . . . " Elindoras began.

"You shall be protected in my Hidden Realm, until you feel ready to venture forth. But beyond that I cannot assist you."

"What would you have us to do?" Linwë asked abruptly.

Melian looked beyond them, through the open window and up into the sky for a long moment.

"You ask for my advice? It is this: to stay with us until you see your path more clearly. To travel to Thangorodrim and seek to wrest the Silmaril from Melkor's Iron Crown by force would be folly. The world is changing, and Melkor will not hold the Silmarils forever. Though who shall take them from him I do not know. Yet this I say to you, Elindoras and Linwë: Stay with us in Doriath for a little while."

"Manwë does not wish to wait," Elindoras ventured.

"Is there anything else you can do?"

Elindoras fell silent, bowing her head. She knew Melian was right. As things stood now, they were powerless.

"Very well," she said softly. "Yet I wish that we might not keep our Lord waiting long. I will do as you advise, Melian, for your wisdom is greater than mine. I have heard you possess much foresight. I beg you, will you tell me how this shall end?"

Melian smiled again.

"I do not see clearly. Some things I know, but I cannot speak of them to you. The One did not intend for the Children of Ilúvatar to know their future, for it is not fitting. Does a lump of metal understand why it is hammered and forged in the red-hot fires? It cannot know that this is to make it into a strong and keen-edged sword for the service of its master. In the same way, your future should lie shadowed, for Ilúvatar is in charge of your fate, and the course of events run the way he has intended them to flow. It is not for you to know, only to obey."

"Do not question the will of the Valar," Linwë murmured.

"Yes," Melian said. "That is another way to say it."

Her mood seemed to lighten, and she turned back to them. "You are weary, and have been afraid."

Both maidens colored.

"But you need not fear. You will be safe with us in Doriath. Now let my daughter introduce you to my husband and the King of Doriath—Thingol Grey-cloak. Then she will take you to the chambers we have prepared for you. There you may rest."

"I thank you, Lady," Linwë said.

The two maidens knelt before her again. Melian smiled into their eyes, giving them each a few words of comfort. Elindoras rose slowly, Linwë close behind her. They followed Lúthien back to the great hall, where Beleg and the scribe stood waiting for them.


	5. Chapter 1 Part 4

**Disclaimer: #1 The Silmarillion is not my invention.**

**#2 Nor did I write this story. That credit must go to my sister and friend.**

Chapter 1

Part 4

As Lúthien led Elindoras and Linwë into the hall of her father, Thingol, (the scribe and Beleg accompanying them) they heard King Thingol's voice lifted in disapproval.

"Wretched guard, I have told you many times to mend that tear in your cloak. But still you choose to appear ragged and unsightly in the presence of your superiors. I fear my mercy has run dry. Off to the dungeons with him!"

"I'm sorry, my lord," a voice stammered.

"You'll be sorrier still when the jailers have finished with you!" Thingol roared. "Now get his ugly face out of here!"

A tall, stony-faced elf warrior, dragging a rather pale and harried looking guard, brushed past the maidens. Elindoras glanced across the room to where Thingol sat upon his throne. The incident had left him in bad humor and he scowled darkly.

"Don't mind my father," Lúthien whispered. "He's just a strict disciplinarian."

She hurried past them and up the stairs to her father's throne, where she held a whispered conversation with him. Soon Thingol's face began to soften and he was smiling. He gave Lúthien a kiss and a quick pat and turned to the others.

"Welcome Elindoras and Linwë of the Valar!" he cried. "Welcome to Doriath!"

Elindoras and Linwë dropped to their knees respectfully.

"I thank you for your hospitality, my lord," Elindoras returned. "May the Valar bless you for it."

Thingol nodded and smiled. He looked very handsome, Elindoras thought, when he was pleasant. No wonder Melian had given up the gardens of Lórien to live with him. A diadem of jewels glittered on his bright silver hair, and his eyes were humorous beneath level dark brows.

"I trust you shall find my realm to your liking."

"It is very fair, my lord," Linwë hastened to assure him.

"It ought to be," Thingol said, frowning. "I paid good gold to those dwarves for all their improvements. But hurry our guests away, Lúthien. Here we stand talking, while they are probably weary and hungry. There will be time enough for such when they have supped and rested. If ever you desire something, ladies, just ask. All Doriath lies at your bidding."

"My lord is too kind," Elindoras murmured, as she and Linwë followed Lúthien out of King Thingol's throne room.

"Her skin like snow

So pale fair

Dark o'er her white arms

Streams her hair

Her eyes shine

As the gray twilight"

"Don't tell me you made that up," Elindoras interrupted.

They had been in Doriath for about a month now. Elindoras and Linwë were walking leisurely down the long, maze-like halls and corridors of Menegroth, heading toward Thingol's court.

The king sent for the maidens at least once a week—usually to inquire if everything was pleasing them and to beg them to tell him if there was something else he could do for them.

The scribe trailed behind the maidens, chanting a little poem under his breath. At Elindoras's question, he paused.

"No," he mumbled. "Daeron did."

Then he continued:

"As my love dances

In the night

So fair and free

Beneath the Elms

In Doriath

The Hidden Realm"

"She's beautiful," the scribe breathed when he had finished.

"Who's beautiful?" Linwë demanded, who had caught snatches of the sung.

"Lúthien," the scribe said dreamily.

Elindoras and Linwë traded a look of horror.

"Look," Elindoras said, grabbing the scribe by the shoulders. "Don't you start getting any ideas. Talking about the princess in such a manner is perilous. Do you hear that, _perilous_! It spells 'Danger' in blazing red runes."

"If King Thingol heard that kind of talk," Linwë added. "The first thing he would do is order your execution. Falling in love with a king's daughter (especially without the king's approval) is madness. Thingol would clap you in some dark dungeon to spin out your days or privately do away with you—rather than run the risk of his having his daughter return your affections. Thingol's got Lúthien's future all planned out, and _you_ aren't part of it."

This seemed to have thoroughly unnerved the scribe, whose face grew pasty white.

"Well . . ." he said shakily. "Her handmaiden is pretty too."

"That's more like it," Linwë replied. "But who told you Lúthien was beautiful? Is that something you figured out on your own?" Her voice sounded doubtful.

"No," the scribe muttered. "Daeron the Minstrel. He thinks so."

"Ah yes, that elf you've been running around with for the past few days."

Elindoras vaguely recalled seeing Thingol's minstrel in the company of their scribe. He was a slight, pale elf, his gilded harp swinging perpetually from his shoulders and a distant look in his eyes that made him seem as if he were walking around in some ancient, dusty dream world of his own, far from the harsh realities of life.

Strangely enough, Elindoras had not really liked him. She wasn't sure why. He certainly did not appear cruel or bad-tempered, though his face had a certain weakness about it. Maybe that was it, the weakness . . . but never mind. She quickly brushed her clinging thoughts away and turned back to the scribe. She had more important things to devote her attention to.

"Well, stay away from that Daeron," Elindoras ordered. "Bad company corrupts good morals. Of course, I don't know if you've any morals left to corrupt, but that minstrel has certainly given you some wild ideas."

By now the two maidens had reached Thingol's chamber. They could hear his voice lifted in anger, which was not a terribly uncommon sound. Thingol's voice had an unusual quality, Elindoras decided, especially when he had lost his temper. It traveled right through walls and shook the very floors.

The guards standing outside the paneled doors leading to the throne room had strained faces.

"What's going on?" Linwë asked one of them.

"It turns out the princess has a lover, ladies. And King Thingol has just learned about it."

"Oh?" Elindoras said, wondering which of the young elvish princes had the good fortune to win Lúthien's graces.

"Only this lover's a mortal."

"Oh," Elindoras repeated. That was quite different. "A _mortal_."

She and Linwë traded a stunned look.

"Let me pass," Elindoras said mechanically.

"The king is in a foul mood, my lady," the guard told them nervously.

"I know, and I thank you for your concerns. But now allow my sister and I entrance."

Elindoras and Linwë slipped through the paneled doors and found themselves in Thingol's vaulted throne room.

The king sat upon his throne, gripping its carved arms with whitened knuckles. His eyes were dark and terrible as the skies before a storm breaks, and he bent his angry gaze upon on a small, ragged mortal standing before him.

Linwë's breath caught, and she gripped Elindoras's arm. Elindoras studied the mortal's face more closely and instantly recognized him as the woodsman who had been "fishing" outside Menegroth on the day of their arrival. Of course! It all fit together perfectly.

Melian sat in silence beside her husband, gray-green eyes burning and distant. Lúthien stood near the mortal. Her face was very white and still, like one of the marble statues in the great courtyard.

Thingol had been yelling, apparently to the mortal, (whose name was Beren, Elindoras quickly gathered) as they entered.

"Can you show reason why my power should not be laid on you in heavy punishment for your insolence and folly?"

The mortal met the eyes of Lúthien, and then for a brief moment he stared into Melian's face.

"My fate, O King, led me hither." As he spoke his voice rose, growing proud and sure. "And here I have found what I sought not indeed, but finding I would possess forever. For it is above all gold and silver, and beyond all jewels. Neither rock, nor steel, nor the fires of Morgoth, nor all the powers of the Elf-kingdoms, shall keep me from the treasure that I desire. For Lúthien your daughter is the fairest of all the Children of the World."

There was a faint gasp along the motionless rank of guards. Thingol's eyes dilated with anger. He spoke slowly, his voice tight and grim.

"Death you have earned with these words, and death you should find suddenly, had I not sworn an oath in haste; of which I repent, baseborn mortal, who in the realm of Morgoth has learnt to creep in secret as his spies and thralls."

Beren threw up his hand, and a ring upon his finger caught the light. He stood tall and haughty—for a moment Elindoras thought none of the elvish princes could seem so great and terrible. A slight wind stirred his dark hair back and his eyes flashed as he replied to Thingol's words.

"Death you can give me earned or unearned; but the names I will not take from you of baseborn, nor spy, nor thrall. By the ring of Felagund, that he gave to Barahir my father on the battlefield of the North, my house has not earned such names from any Elf, be he king or no."

Then Elindoras knew Beren was indeed a prince and lord among his own people. For Barahir, his father, was one of the leaders of the First House of the Edain—the Elf Friends—and their deeds had become a song even among the elves. She looked closely at the ring and saw it was the badge of the Noldor, twin serpents with eyes of emerald coiled together beneath a wreath of golden flowers.

At Thingol's side, Melian leaned over and whispered to him. What she said then Elindoras never knew, but her words must have not been to Thingol's liking, for his gaze only grew darker.

He stared at Lúthien in moody silence. She looked not at him but at Beren. Very high and fair she seemed, like a young white birch. Elindoras did not know when she had ever seemed so beautiful. For a brief moment she felt she understood a little Thingol's great grief and bitterness of heart when he thought of parting with his daughter, his most prized possession in all of Arda.

"I see the ring, son of Barahir," he spoke at last, coldly and distinctly. "And I perceive that you are proud, and deem yourself mighty . . . See now! I too desire a treasure that is withheld. For rock and steel and the fires of Morgoth keep that jewel that I would possess against all the powers of the Elf-kingdoms. Yet I hear you say that bonds such as these do not daunt you. Go your way therefore! Bring to me in your hand a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown; and then, if she will, Lúthien may set her hand in yours. Then you shall have my jewel, and though the fate of Arda lie within the Silmarils, yet you shall hold me generous."

But Beren laughed, a wild, mocking note.

"For little price do Elven-kings sell their daughters: for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, I will perform it. And when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last upon Beren son of Barahir."

For a moment Melian again held Beren's eyes, and Elindoras wondered if silent speech passed between them. Then Beren pressed Lúthien's hands fervently to his lips, and with a quick bow before the throne of Thingol, he whirled and pushed through the ranks of guards.

Linwë and Elindoras slipped back into the hall. As Beren brushed past them, his gray cloak flying, he looked into their eyes and knew them.

The two maidens smiled and nodded slightly. But the scribe, not abashed, cried: "Talking about the princess in such a manner is perilous! It spells 'Danger' in blazing red runes!"

Fortunately Beren had already passed, and did not seem to catch the scribe's words. But Elindoras, thoroughly scandalized, clapped her hand over his mouth.


	6. Chapter 1 Part 5

**Disclaimer: #1 Tolkien wrote the Silmarillion, not I.**

**#2 Nor did I write this story. I am merely posting it for my sister and a friend.**

Chapter 1

Part 5

After Beren had gone darkness seemed to fall upon Lúthien. She no longer danced beneath the stars or wandered among the birches of Neldoreth, nor did she call Elindoras and Linwë to talk with them as she had often done before. She sat alone in her chamber, white and unspeaking, like a flower cut off from the sun that has begun to wither.

It was then Elindoras and Linwë learned of the full depth of Lúthien's devotion for Beren.

Lúthien had gone to her mother for counsel, (the only one she would speak to) and with her foresight Melian had seen that Sauron, the servant of Morgoth, had captured Beren. And now Beren lay in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth without hope of rescue.

Lúthien must have realized no help would come to him in all of Arda—unless she herself went to his rescue. How she planned to aid him Elindoras and Linwë did not understand. There was no power in Middle-earth that could match the great and horrible darkness of Morgoth, and the idea of a mere elf-maid confronting him was almost laughable. But they did understand the full depth of her loyalty to Beren—for blind though it was, she loved him.

After Lúthien had resolved to fly from Doriath, she made the mistake of going to Daeron the Minstrel for his aid and advice. And Daeron betrayed Lúthien's purposes to her father, Thingol.

Elindoras knew it was partly out of fear for Lúthien's safety that Daeron sought to keep her, but still she despised him for it. He had long been jealous of Beren. And that jealousy had turned to a festering hate that had made him wretched and craven.

Thingol was terrified and amazed by this news of Daeron's. Perhaps he had thought Lúthien's love for Beren was a mere passing fancy, but now he too realized the full extent of it. He realized if he were to keep his daughter with him, he must take measures to prevent her escape.

So Thingol ordered his elves to lock Lúthien in a flet, which he had built in the branches of Hírilorn, (the greatest of the beech trees in Neldoreth.) All the ladders were taken away, and his elves stood guard.

Yet Lúthien escaped. Elindoras and Linwë did not understand how she had managed to do so, for Hírilorn was a tree of amazing height and it had no branches.

Lúthien's guards were found sleeping—a deep sleep that the maidens thought seemed suspiciously like that caused by wine, or (and this was even more likely) enchantments. When questioned, the guards could recall little of anything that had passed before they had dropped off to sleep. They had remained alert and vigilant, they claimed. They had been wide-awake and without trace of weariness. They did not even recall feeling drowsy before they dropped off.

One guard vaguely remembered straining to keep his senses clear, but he said sleep had closed around him like a surge of water. And in spite of his struggles he had been pulled down into its deep darkness. Lúthien had great power, Elindoras and Linwë did not doubt, and she could have enchanted the guards. Yet could she create a rope? No one could scale the formidable Hírilorn without one—and to drop from the flet would be fatal. They wondered if any of the guards had been bribed to give her a rope, but certainly the thought of Thingol's wrath and instant execution would frighten anyone out of attempting that.

Beleg Strongbow would have been blamed for Lúthien's disappearance, (as he had always been particularly sympathetic to her and the plight of the mortal race) but he had left Doriath on some mission at Thingol's bidding long before Beren was discovered. He had not been present during Lúthien's confinement and the whole chain of events that had followed.

So Lúthien's escape was shrouded in mystery. But the fact that she was gone remained.

All Doriath fell into sorrow and silence after her departure.

King Thingol was bowed with grief, and although it was undoubtedly sincere, Elindoras and Linwë could scarcely scrape up much pity for him—after all, he was the one who had sent Beren on the suicide mission and attempted to rule his daughter's heart by force.

Melian was also deeply grieving, but Melian always seemed a little above the maidens' pity. Beren they only considered fortunate to have won Lúthien's favor (though they did not envy his position as Sauron's captive) and they were glad that Lúthien had escaped. True, great peril could overtake her, and they readily admitted she might lose her life. But so her doom was laid, and Elindoras privately liked to think she would do as much for her own beloved.

Of all those involved, the maidens decided Thingol's guards (the ones who had been found sleeping at their post after Lúthien's escape) most deserved their sympathies.


	7. Chapter 2 Part 1

**Disclaimer: #1 None could approach Tolkein's genius at universe building. They only use his platform as foundation for their buildings.**

**#2 I must also confess I did not write this story. I only edit and post for two friends.**

Chapter 2

Part 1

Elindoras threaded her needle and turned over the piece of deep green fabric on her lap. It was thick and warm, and would make an excellent cloak for chilly winter nights.

Manwë had sent Elindoras and Linwë from Valinor so abruptly that they had not been able to take anything along with them. And as a result, they had only the clothes they were wearing at the time (most unsuitable for Thingol's courts) and their oldest cloaks. Fortunately Melian had soon realized their lack of attire and provided them with a generous amount of good cloth. And for once, Elindoras felt grateful for the sewing instruction Queen Varda had given her, though she had never really appreciated it at the time.

Elindoras glanced over at Linwë, who sat beside her embroidering delicate blue flowers along the collar of a dress she had just finished. It was a beautiful dress of royal blue material, the exact shade of Linwë's eyes, and slim fitting with a long train and flowing sleeves. Linwë had already tried it on, and from the admiring stares the guards had given her as they walked down the halls, they both considered it a success.

Linwë was a much finer seamstress than her sister, as she had more patience and had practiced long in Valinor sewing tapestries for the Valar. Elindoras; however, had spent her time riding with Oromë the Hunter on her white stallion, _Silma_.

Linwë had already finished both her cloak and the dress, while Elindoras had only began the tricky process of cutting out her cloak and piecing it together. Of course, Elindoras had also taken on the responsibility of watching the scribe, and that had been no easy task. Now he sat humbly on a stool at Linwë's feet, holding up her sewing basket so that she could reach the thread without effort.

"It was certainly thoughtful of King Thingol to promise us a body-guard," Elindoras began, speaking through clenched teeth, as she had a mouthful of pins. "Scribe, hand me a pincushion."

The scribe grumbled something under his breath about being a scribe, not a tailor's assistant. But when Elindoras gave him a sharp look, he sulkily rummaged around in the sewing basket and handed over the desired pincushion.

"Yes," Linwë agreed thoughtfully. "Both Melian the Maia and King Thingol are generous hosts. Manwë did well to send us to Doriath."

"You speak truly, sister," Elindoras replied with a sigh. "Though I have no desire for a bodyguard. It is annoying enough to have the scribe trailing behind us every time we venture forth from our chambers. But a bodyguard with his great sword and shield clanking around us will be even worse! If this keep going, we will eventually have a whole retinue at our heels."

"I trust King Thingol will not go that far," Linwë laughed. "He has often warned us danger lurks everywhere in these dark times. We ought to be grateful he does not feel the need to confine us in Menegroth—and that he has promised to allow us to venture forth into the woods around Doriath if one of his men accompanies us."

"You are right, of course. I suppose Thingol feels responsible for our safety. And mayhap a bodyguard could help us control the scribe."

"That would not be unwelcome," Linwë said. "By the way, Elindoras, where did you find him this afternoon?"

"Out on the bridge over Esgalduin, harassing King Thingol's guards again."

Linwë raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Again? I thought you told him stay away from them."

Elindoras threw up her hands in exasperation.

"I've told him to stay away from him more times than I can remember. He just doesn't learn."

"Or doesn't listen."

Elindoras rolled her eyes.

"That to."

"I wanted to see if I could make the guards smile," the scribe said defensively. "No harm in that, is there?"

"No harm!" Linwë exclaimed. "If King Thingol found you tormenting his guards while they were on duty, you could be severely punished. I don't want to hear another such account about you ever again, or we shall have to keep you locked in your room." She glanced at the scribe. "Is that understood?"

A sharp rap at the door saved the scribe from replying.

"Come in?" Elindoras called.

The door burst open, and a tall elf sauntered into the maiden's chamber. His clothes were dripping with beads of water, which made Elindoras wonder if he had been caught in that afternoon's rainstorm. His stained cloak, which must have been green at one time but had long since faded to a dull gray, hung limply around his shoulders. His lank, wet hair lay plastered to his neck. The elf's face was coated with dirt, but rain droplets running down it had cut out channels in the grime, showing his hard, sun-tanned cheekbones underneath. The elf's filthy hands rested on the hilt of his sword, and his boots left muddy footprints on the marble floor. He paused before Elindoras and Linwë and gave a half-bow.

"May I help you?" Elindoras asked icily.

"No. Actually, I'm here to help you."

"Indeed?" Linwë asked. "By mopping up the puddles you've tracked in all over our floor?"

Her sarcasm was lost on the elf, who slumped against the nearest wall and regarded them with lazy dark eyes.

"Actually, ladies, I'm your new bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?" Elindoras gasped.

"Why, yes. King Thingol should have notified you of my arrival."

"He did. But . . . there must be some mistake."

"I assure you there is none."

"I don't believe you." Linwë said coldly.

"Don't you?" the elf asked, a flicker of interest behind his eyes. "That's too bad."

"Half a moment . . ." Elindoras threw down her sewing and rose. "Would you mind stepping out of the room while we're gone?"

"Yes."

Elindoras stared at him, shocked by such a flat-out refusal.

"I'm ordering you out of the room."

"Sorry," the elf sighed. "King Thingol's orders. Yours don't count."

Elindoras brushed past him, with Linwë close behind. They hurried up the halls and burst into Thingol's throne room.

"Is something wrong, my ladies?" he asked, turning from a window he had been staring out of moodily.

"As a matter of fact, there is, my lord," Elindoras spoke up. "Our bodyguard has arrived. Or at least, a strange elf pushed his way into our chamber, claiming to be the bodyguard you sent us."

"Ah, yes, Mablung the Hunter. I trust he is to your liking?"

"Our liking," Linwë said in a strangled voice. "My lord Thingol—!"

"My lord, we shall not have him!" Elindoras exclaimed. "Anyone else—but assuredly _not_ him! He is unbearable."

"Why unbearable?"

"He came into our room filthy, dripping water and mud all over the place. When I asked him to step out, he simply refused."

Thingol lifted a hand to hide his smile.

"Mablung has never been known for his, ahem, respect. But ladies, he just came back from a long trek through the woods. He had not time to clean up before I sent him to your service. Can he help his appearance?"

"He is a disrespectful and dirty scoundrel!"

"When he comes to you tomorrow his appearance will be improved. And I shall have a little talk with him about obedience. However, you can't blame him for refusing to leave your chambers, as that is where I stationed him."

"Might you station him somewhere else, my lord, besides our private chambers?"

"You can have him stand in the doorway, I suppose."

"My lord is too kind," Elindoras said bitterly.

"I am sorry to displease you, my ladies," Thingol said, sighing. "But Mablung is the only one whom I feel safe entrusting you with. I would feel no alarm if he accompanied you on you rambles through the woods. He is an excellent woodsman, for he has wandered long in the wilds. His sense of direction is so keen he could surely find his way through even the mazes of Melian—no disrespect to my wife, of course. Besides this, he is skilled with the sword, and above all, loyal and devoted. He will serve you well."

Elindoras felt her cheeks flaming with wrath.

"What the Valar shall say when they hear of this outrage!"

Thingol's eyes flamed and he sprang to his feet. "Do not threaten me, Lady Elindoras."

"Then I beg you!" She dropped to her knees. "Please, send that bodyguard away. I cannot bear the sight of him."

"Yes," Linwë echoed, no less fervently. "Please, my lord."

"I repeat," Thingol said heavily. "Mablung the Hunter is the only one whom I feel safe entrusting you with. He will serve you well in your hour of need, and then you will be glad you had him with you. I do not doubt when you have made his acquaintance you will find him less repulsive. Meanwhile, leave me to my meditations."


	8. Chapter 2 Part 2

**Disclaimer: #1 Anyone with an SAT score of 300 could figure out that I did not write the Simarillion. It was Tolkien who accomplished such a feat.**

**#2 Furthermore, I did not write this story. I only post it for my sister and a friend.**

Chapter 2

Part 2

When Elindoras and Linwë returned to their chamber, they found Mablung still propping up the wall. He nodded his head casually as they passed.

Elindoras cleared her throat and turned to face him.

"Since it seems you are to become our bodyguard whether we will or no, we might as well introduce ourselves. You are Mablung the Hunter, and I am—"

"Elindoras, daughter of Ingwë, High King of the Vanyar. And this is your sister Linwë, daughter of Ingwë, High King of the Vanyar."

Elindoras raised her eyebrows as Mablung had finished rattling it all off.

"I suppose Thingol already spoke of us. I hadn't thought of that. Very good, it saves time."

"Time is something very precious to you, my ladies?"

Elindoras looked at him sharply. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

Mablung merely spread his hands with elaborate indifference, so Elindoras continued.

"I suppose you realize by now we don't want you here—"

"Actually, ladies, I really don't want to be here either."

"I thought as much. But since we are forced into one another's company by King Thingol's orders, we may as well make the best of it."

"Therefore, perhaps you would like to start by stepping out of the room," Linwë suggested. "We have King Thingol's orders to back us up."

Mablung shrugged philosophically and slouched to the doorway.

"Does this please you now, my lady?" he asked.

"It's good enough for today, I suppose," Linwë returned. "It'll have to do. But tomorrow—again on the orders of your dear king—you are to report for duty in clean clothes."

"If you think I'm wearing these wet rags out of choice, you're wrong, my lady."

Elindoras looked at his dripping clothes for a moment. Her mouth quirked into a smile.

"It does seem improbable."

She and Linwë returned to their chairs. It was growing late, and the room dim, so they began to gather up their sewing. The scribe sat motionless on his stool, mouth slightly agape as he stared at Mablung with a look Elindoras didn't quite like. It reminded her strongly of awe and admiration. She tapped sharply on his shoulder.

"Close your mouth, please, and help us put the sewing stuff away."

While Elindoras folded up the pieces of her cloak and helped Linwë hang up her dress, she felt uncomfortably aware of Mablung's eyes following them. He was too polite to stare, but he continuously gave the two maidens side-ways glances. Elindoras strongly disliked the feeling of Mablung watching her as if she were Exhibit A in Vairë the Weaver's Halls of Time. But she decided she might as well accept the presence of their bodyguard, for it seemed there was no way she could rid herself of his company.

As Elindoras and Linwë made their way into the side-chamber where they slept, Linwë went to see that the scribe was safely confined in his bedroom while Elindoras stepped back into the main room.

Mablung stood slouched against the doorpost, and Elindoras heard a faint rattle that sounded suspiciously like his teeth were chattering. Drawn by some impulse she did not quite understand, she moved toward him. He glanced up immediately and stiffened as she approached.

"What now, my lady?"

Elindoras disliked the disrespectful tone of his voice, but his wet clothes looked cold and uncomfortable, and she knew she could not sleep in her warm bed while thinking of him shivering out in the draughty passage. (Whether he deserved to shiver or not was irrelevant.)

"I thought I'd bring you a cloak," she said, holding up one of her old ones. "You look cold."

"Do I?" he asked, making no move to take it from her.

"Well, if you do decide you want it, it'll be here," Elindoras said, dropping the cloak. She glanced over her shoulder as she crossed the room toward her chamber, and couldn't help but smile when she saw that already Mablung was peeling off his wet cloak and snatching up the dry one she had left for him.

Elindoras woke the next morning to Linwë shaking her shoulder gently.

"Sister," Linwë whispered. "The scribe's missing."

Elindoras forced her eyes open and scrambled out of bed. The world swung unsteadily around her as she forced her eyes to focus on Linwë's anxious face.

"Again?" she groaned.

"I let him out about a few moments ago and gave him instructions to stay on his stool. When I turned my back, he was gone. Mablung said he saw him pass, but did not try to stop him as he thought I had sent him upon some errand."

"I'll go find him," Elindoras offered, flinging her cloak around her shoulders and hurrying into the main room. She nearly stumbled against Mablung who stood in the doorway, forgetting momentarily of his presence. With a hasty apology she hurried on.

The passages of Menegroth were cold and empty, full of strange echoes. Elindoras heard sudden, heavy footsteps behind her, and to her dismay, her breath caught in her throat a little. When she glanced over her shoulder, she was almost relieved to find Mablung's ragged figure at her heels.

"Do you know the way to the gates?" she demanded.

"You don't?" He grinned.

"No," Elindoras replied shortly. "I've only been here a few days. Now did you come to show me the way or pester me? "

Mablung obediently pushed ahead of her. He had a long, loose stride that seemed to cover distances effortlessly. Elindoras practically trotted after him down the winding corridors.

When they reached the gates, the guards let them pass without a word. The cold outdoor air enveloped Elindoras. Fog rose from the river, and she caught only glimpses of the bridge, wrapped in its gloomy gray shroud. The grind and creak of the gates closing behind them, the whispered comments of the guards, and the soft lap of the river against the supports of the bridge seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness of dawn.

Elindoras started forward hesitantly, aware of Mablung close at her side. The cold curls of mist lay damp on her face. She glimpsed a slight figure of the scribe up ahead in the shifting grayness, and hurried forward with a gasp of relief.

When Elindoras was a few paces away, the scribe rose. His back was toward her, so he had not yet seen her. He tossed something in his hand, and then, before Elindoras could call out, flung it smoothly toward the nearest guard.

Elindoras caught in her breath as she heard something clink against the metal breastplate of the guard. The scribe was just in the act of throwing another rock when Mablung seized him. He gave a loud shriek and went limp in Mablung's arms.

"All right." Elindoras grabbed the scribe from Mablung and wrenched him around. "Didn't Linwë and I tell you to leave those guards alone?"

The scribe whimpered and fidgeted.

"Well?" she demanded, shaking him.

"Sorry?" he asked hopefully.

Elindoras looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"I have a feeling you aren't really penitent. This is the fifth time I've caught you out here harassing the guards. You apologize every time, but the next instant we turn our attention away from you, you're back here.

"I'm sure the guards are quite fed up with you, and our servant or no, you may just find yourself knocked off the bridge one day." Elindoras shoved him closer to the edge, ignoring his frantic protests. "A long way to fall, isn't it? Do you know how to swim?"

"Help, save me! Mercy!" the scribe shrieked to Mablung, who showed no signs of going to his aid.

"Hold still," Elindoras snapped. "Or I'll have to drop you. Now look, the next time I find you within ten feet of those guards, I'm going to shove you into the river myself. Do you hear that?"

"Yes, yes," the scribe sobbed. "I'll never do it again."

"Okay good. And you'd better mean it this time. Now you can apologize to the guard. Which one were you throwing the rocks at?"

"Him, over there," the scribe whimpered.

"All right, apologize," Elindoras ordered, leading the scribe nearer. She glanced up at the guard, feeling a stab of anger when she saw a bruise darkening on his cheek from one of the scribe's unusually well aimed rocks.

"Sorry," the scribe muttered, digging his toe into a crack in the paving stones and hanging his head as he spoke.

The cold mask of the guard's face relaxed slightly, but he made no movement of recognition. However, Elindoras knew he had heard.

She dragged the scribe back to where Mablung stood watching. Elindoras tried to read his expression, but he only appeared rather bored by the whole affair.

"That scribe has a certain fascination for the guards," Elindoras said, feeling some explanation ought to be given. "I have a terrible time keeping him away from them. But I trust this shall not happen again."

"I just wanted to make them smile," the scribe grumbled.

Elindoras raised her eyebrows slightly. "By throwing rocks at them?"

"Well," the scribe muttered. "Or make them move."

"They are not supposed to move, and I suggest you quit trying to encourage them. Don't forget what I said about shoving you into the river. And don't think I'll forget what I said, either. Now march."

"Well, lady," Mablung said, when they had re-entered Menegroth. "I'll be back later this morning."

"In clean clothes," Elindoras added meaningfully.

Mablung strolled off, showing no signs of having heard. Elindoras sighed deeply.


	9. Chapter 2 Part 3

**Disclaimer: #1 No, I did not write the Simarillion. Tolkien did that.**

**#2 Furthermore, I only post this story for my sister and a friend.**

Chapter 2

Part 3

Later that morning, as Linwë sat helping Elindoras piece her cloak together, there came the same sharp rap on the door.

Elindoras and Linwë met each other's eyes, both dreading to see if Mablung had decided to comply. If he hadn't, well . . .

The knock was repeated.

"Come in," Elindoras said.

She could barely keep her jaw from dropping as Mablung slouched back into his place in their doorway. He had on a fresh change of clothes, true—(though they were terribly worn and even more tattered than the first) but his hair or face had not been touched, and he hadn't even bothered to clean the mud off his boots.

"Mablung!" Linwë exclaimed.

"Yes, my lady?" he said, looking up at her with the sort of mild surprise Elindoras expected to find on the face of a cow in Oromë's herd of wild kine.

"Do you happen to recall the instructions my sister and I gave you, regarding your, ahem, personal appearance?"

He wrinkled his forehead.

"Why yes, it seems I do recall you saying something about that."

"It was only this morning, Mablung," Linwë said, her voice dangerous. "Have you forgotten already?"

"I said I recalled it, my lady."

"Apparently you did not feel inclined to act on it?"

"I changed my clothes."

"I applaud you. But could you not have taken a shower?"

"A shower?" He stared at her.

"A bath, then," Linwë said impatiently. "Or at least washed your face."

"A waste of water," Mablung replied languidly. "It would only get dirty again."

"That is the point of taking a bath," Linwë fairly spat. "You take one when you need it, and when you get dirty again, well—you take another one."

"And you desperately need one right now," Elindoras added. "Has that ever occurred to you?"

Mablung rolled his eyes slightly. "Not really. I have better things to do."

"I had a feeling. Your wretched appearance tells all. Or have you ever felt the urge to comb your hair?"

He raised his eyebrows at her biting sarcasm and stirred, but made no move to defend himself or continue the argument.

"Come sister," Elindoras said wearily. "Scribe, stay here, or you shall wish you had."

They started down the hall.

"What do you want?" Linwë demanded, as Mablung began to follow them.

"I'm your body guard." A wicked grin spread itself slowly across his face. "Have you forgotten already?"

King Thingol was not busy, and Elindoras and Linwë were allowed an audience with him almost immediately.

"My lord," Linwë began, as she and Elindoras knelt before Thingol. "I am sure you distinctly recall promising yesterday that our bodyguard would improve his appearance." She motioned to Mablung, who although he had no wall to lean again, stood sagging with his hands crossed on the hilt of his sword.

King Thingol scanned Mablung, a hint of humor in his eyes.

"Is this true, Mablung?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Why did you not improve your appearance before returning to the ladies?"

"I didn't want to."

A titter ran among the servants and guards present at this reply. King Thingol's eyes darkened.

"You will stand up straight and speak with respect while addressing your king."

Mablung pulled himself up for a moment, then slumped back into his usual position.

"Yes, my lord."

Thingol leaned back and drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne.

"Now Mablung, that is not a good excuse. I am most displeased to hear that you are offending my guests. Look around you, look at my guards."

All of the guards stiffened and drew themselves up even further as Mablung obligingly took a few bored glances over his shoulder.

"I demand that they stay tidy and stand at attention when they are in my presence," Thingol continued. "Should I expect no less from you, Mablung, my Chief of Guards?"

Mablung did not reply, and as it was a slightly rhetorical question, Thingol did not challenge his silence.

"Do you know how I punish my guards whenever they show untidiness or disrespect in my presence?"

"No, my lord."

"Then I shall tell you. For any breach of obedience, from a slightly rusty scabbard to a moment's delay in carrying out my orders, they receive fifty lashes." Thingol narrowed his eyes. " Do you want fifty lashes, Mablung?"

"Not particularly, my lord," Mablung replied without interest.

"Then see you keep yourself respectable in the presence of the ladies. Elindoras and Linwë, notify me if you have further complaints."

The two maidens bowed.

"Guards, you may escort them out," Thingol added, waving a hand to his guards who jumped forward as if they had been struck. "See how quickly my guards move when I give them commands, Mablung? You will show the same promptness in the service of my guests, or you will wish you had."

"Yes, my lord," Mablung replied dutifully.

When Elindoras and Linwë returned to their apartments, Mablung slumped back against the doorpost. To Elindoras's relief, the scribe had not budged from his stool. She and Linwë bent back over her cloak. It was nearly pieced, and soon they could begin the long, dull process of sewing it together.

Elindoras glanced up at Mablung. He stood motionless, staring at the knots in the wood of the other doorpost moodily. She certainly hoped Thingol's threats would convince him to improve his appearance, for Elindoras strongly disliked the idea of turning him over to the King for his promised fifty lashes.

"Mablung," she began, handing Linwë a pin. She was not sure why she spoke, except she had some vague idea that perhaps persuasion would work where force had failed. "Forgive my idle questions, but how did you lose your finger?"

"Which finger?"

Elindoras and Linwë glanced at him curiously. For the first time they noticed he was, indeed, missing several fingers.

"Three, to be exact," Mablung said, sensing their gaze. "Various, ahem, circumstances."

"Indeed. Would you mind sharing any of them?" Elindoras asked.

Mablung shrugged. "Anything for a lady. Thingol ordered this one cut off . . ." he began nonchalantly, but paused when Elindoras choked.

"You said Thingol ordered that one cut off?" she asked, unable to believe what she had heard.

"Why yes. A severe case of disrespect, he claimed."

"I can well imagine him giving you the fifty lashes then," Linwë muttered, and though her comment was most likely meant for only Elindoras, Mablung caught it.

"Oh no, ladies. He wouldn't want to seriously cripple me."

"So he just cuts off your fingers?" Linwë asked sarcastically.

"Well, ladies," Mablung said apologetically. "First he was going to brand me—but I told him I'd leave his services for good if he did that. Then was going to cut off my hand. But in the end, he decided it'd better be a finger so that I could still hold my sword. He can't afford to lose me as a warrior. I'm much too valuable."

"Valuable," Elindoras laughed. "Forgive me, Mablung, but I just cannot see you as being valuable."

Mablung smiled, for some reasons appearing more flattered than offended.

"Perhaps not, my ladies, but I assure you I have hidden talents."

"They are very well hidden," Linwë assured him. "What about your other finger?"

"Oh, you don't want to know about that one. It isn't a story for delicate ladies."

"Really? You must have had an exciting life. But go ahead and tell us. We aren't delicate."

"Oh, this one. Well, I got in an, ahem, little fight."

"With who?"

"Oh, some friends of mine, or," he coughed. "Acquaintances. A little knife-fight in a tavern, you might say."

Elindoras and Linwë traded a horrified glance.

"Yes, a very interesting life," Linwë agreed dryly. "Have any other interesting things to share?"

Looking into his face more carefully, Elindoras saw what she had missed before under the coating of grime. A long scar started at the top of his left cheek and ran all the way to his chin.

Mablung noticed her close scrutiny and grinned. He settled back against the doorpost.

"A long story, my ladies."

"Well, we've got all the time in the world," Elindoras said.

Mablung shrugged. "About that. To begin: I was going on a little tromp in the woods, a little expedition for King Thingol, you might say, out in the wastelands. A couple friends of mine were along for the exercise. Wolves had been shadowing us, and for several days we could see their dark shadows slinking along through the trees. We built fires every night to frighten them off. But they were growing bolder, and hungrier. They had stampeded the horses a few days before—that's why we were on foot.

"One night they finally attacked our camp. They killed both of my companions. Blood was everywhere . . ."

"I don't want to hear the details, Mablung," Elindoras said. "Just get on with the story."

He looked at her with a hint of a smile.

"I thought you weren't delicate."

"How about 'anything for a lady?" Linwë reminded him.

"Very well. My companions were all dead, and how they screamed as the wolves closed in on them! But never mind . . . I made it to the trees. Killed a couple wolves on the way, and got this scar, too," he traced it reflectively. "Spent about three days up in that tree if I remember correctly. Longest days of my life."

"I can well imagine," Elindoras said with a shudder.

"Did they kill you?" the scribe quavered.

Elindoras and Linwë glanced over at him, and saw that he was white and trembling. He stared at Mablung slack-jawed.

"It's rather obvious they didn't," Linwë said coldly. "Now close your mouth. You have no idea how idiotic you look with it hanging open."

The scribe shut his mouth with a gulp.

"Well," Mablung settled back luxuriously. "I sure thought they were going to kill me. I lashed myself to a branch with my belt to keep from falling, so I did get a little sleep. It rained some, and I managed to catch it in my cloak. But that was about it. Those wolves sat around, looking up at my with their teeth gleaming and yellow eyes shining up at me in the darkness . . ."

He paused as the scribe gave a frightened yelp.

"How did you ever get down?" Elindoras asked, feeling a grudging interest in Mablung's story.

"Orcs came along."

"Really? Did they help you down and tell you to run along home?"

"You're too witty, my lady," Mablung retorted. "They did chase away the wolves, but they took me as their prisoner. I spent another three or four days in their company. That was fun. But as a result, their company has lost all its appeal to me. At least what appeal it had to start with."

"I'm surprised they didn't kill you," Linwë said.

"Yes, they generally don't take prisoners. I don't know why they kept me alive, perhaps because I gave them good sport. But the point is, they did, and I broke loose one night. Fortunately I stumbled upon a company of other elves, who got me back to Doriath. I wasn't in much of a state to shift for myself."

"You haven't had a dull life, have you?"

"No, King Thingol sees to that. I haven't become Captain of the Guards for lounging around Doriath. I've been on more missions for him than I can count. But it would take days to tell about them all."

Later that evening, as Elindoras and Linwë settled themselves in their beds, Linwë said, "I suppose we've come to know Mablung better, anyway."

"Yes, I was trying to understand him," Elindoras returned with a laugh. "I don't know how well we succeeded, but I have a feeling tomorrow some things will be different."


	10. Chapter 2 Part 4

**Disclaimer: #1 No, I did not write the Simarillion. Tolkien did that.**

**#2 Furthermore, I only post this story for my sister and a friend.**

Chapter 2

Part 4

Elindoras was right. Somehow their conversation with Mablung the day before had worked a change in him. Afterwards Elindoras was not sure why. Perhaps he had thought them likeable and decided not to make their lives difficult. Or perhaps he had realized they were friendly, so merely decided not to resume hostilities. Perhaps, too, the threats of Thingol had taken effect. Whatever it was, when they heard the familiar rap at the door the following morning, Elindoras felt strangely confident in spite of the flutter of her heart.

"Come in," Linwë called.

Mablung slouched into the room, looking well pleased with himself. And he had taken some pains with his appearance. The majority of the dirt was scrubbed from his face and he'd had the good grace to put on a clean pair of boots.

Linwë smiled at Elindoras's knowing look. The two resumed their sewing.



One thing Mablung refused to do; however, was to touch his hair. He preferred to leave it in long, lank tangles around his face. Whenever Elindoras or Linwë tried to convince him to comb it, he protested vehemently. "I'm not a girl to spend hours combing my hair before a mirror!" he would cry.

Neither would he stand up straight. At last Elindoras and Linwë gave up their begging, cajoling, and threats, and Mablung continued to slump happily against strategically placed walls and chairs.

Every night Mablung spent in the doorway. He did not keep a very strict watch, for Doriath was a safe place, and Thingol had merely instructed him to doze or "sleep with one eye open," as he put it. He had a few hours to himself in the mornings, and whenever Elindoras and Linwë went for a stroll in the woods of Neldoreth, Mablung was their guide.

Elindoras and Linwë often spent the afternoons riding as well. And though Mablung declined to sit a horse, he usually managed to keep up with them on foot, for the woods were dense and brushy, and it was best not to travel through them any faster than a slow trot. The green banks of the Esaglduin were more ideal for galloping.

Thingol, a most attentive host, had told them the maidens might ride any horse in his stable they took a fancy to. There was no great selection. Thingol never showed much interest in horses, and the nags of Doriath were not the fine elven steeds Elindoras and Linwë had ridden in Valinor. Most were horses Thingol's messengers had ridden, and subsequently discarded after ruining their knees and breaking their wind in wild gallops. There were also a few slightly serviceable war-horses, which Thingol's warriors rode occasionally—and taught nasty tricks to amuse themselves in their spare hours. One of these was a wicked little red filly that someone had made his personal pet and thoroughly spoiled.

Elindoras had taken charge of the filly, gaily saying she liked a challenge, and missed Silma more every mile. Linwë, however, generally rode a retired post horse, a big gray with a dappled coat and a slight limp—as lazy as Mablung himself—but generally good-natured and grudgingly willing to please.

When they were not riding or walking, they sewed for Melian or worked on tapestries for the palace. And Mablung stood guard.

He seemed to relish his inactivity. Elindoras could never quite understand it, but the fact remained: idleness didn't bore him. He often polished his sword, (though probably only to escape Thingol's fifty lashes) and he did start carving a little statue of a stag once, which Elindoras and Linwë never saw as a finished product. But most of the time his hands rested on the hilt of his sword, or (and this was the most common case) grasped a goblet of limpë.

At first Elindoras and Linwë had been horrified to find him drinking. In spite of their stormy protests, Mablung ignored them and continued to sip from his goblet calmly. So they finally had to accept it, just as they were forced to accept nearly everything else about him.

But to Mablung's credit, he never got seriously drunk. Although did manage to stay sober, Elindoras cringed whenever she wondered how many barrels of mead he must have drunk in their service.

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One afternoon, after Elindoras had finished a heated debate with Mablung on the benefits of good posture, and as usual, failed miserably to her make her point, one of King Thingol's servants carried in their meal. Elindoras and Linwë took their places at the table, and motioned for the scribe to do the same. Mablung asked for nothing but his goblet re-filled. Then he leaned back against the doorpost to close his eyes blissfully and drink.

After the servant had left, Linwë gave a brief thanks to the Valar and the two maidens began their meal.

About halfway through the scribe tipped back his chair and started to push his feet up on the table. Elindoras choked on her mouthful of bread as several silver platters began to jiggle.

"Scribe!" Linwë cried, and the scribe jerked his feet back with a guilty start. All the cups bounced, but luckily nothing was spilled.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.

"Mablung does it," the scribe whimpered.

Elindoras heard a spluttering behind her, but when she shot Mablung a look of annoyance, his face was perfectly grave.

"If Mablung chooses to put his feet on a wine barrel in King Thingol's cellar, that is his business. But when you are eating a civilized meal with civilized people, you will do well to remember your manners."

"Does that mean Mablung isn't civilized?" the scribe asked.

"We are not discussing Mablung," Elindoras told him with a shake. "We are discussing you. And I want to hear no more excuses such as 'Mablung does this' or 'Mablung does that.' Mablung is absolutely _not_ your role model. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the scribe said, whimpering again.

Elindoras let him go and lifted her napkin.

"And stop whimpering!"

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The scribe's infatuation for Mablung did not stop there. True, he never again ventured to place his feet on a table in the presence of the maidens, but he began to adopt Mablung's swaggering walk and particular manner of slumping against objects.

Worst of all, the scribe seemed to develop a taste for limpë. The limpë had no noticeable effect on Mablung, who could hold a startling amount of it. But the scribe was another story. Elindoras and Linwë forbade him to touch it, and attempted to let none fall into his possession, but they had their suspicions Mablung would give him a drink behind their backs.

The climax was yet to come. Elindoras and Linwë had long noticed the scribe sat spellbound with the characteristic slack-jawed look on his face whenever Mablung began to tell stories of his adventures. They saw, too, the worshipful look the scribe gave Mablung's missing fingers and many scars. He seemed to consider scars the ultimate badge of a hero, which probably explained his conduct a few weeks later.

Elindoras often carried a little dagger in her belt, enameled with gold and set with fine emeralds. She had no clear idea why she carried it, except is seemed wise always to have a weapon on hand, and that her father, Ingwë had given it to her. It was one of her prize possessions, except for a bracelet that she always wore.

One day Elindoras forgot to put it on when she dressed that morning, but accidentally left it near her bed. She and Linwë were, as usual, sewing. They had finished Elindoras's cloak, and Linwë was helping her complete her dress, a brilliant green one very similar in style to Linwë's. Mablung was slumped against the wall, watching them work and telling them some rambling story about how all the eligible young noblemen in Doriath would be at their feet the moment they saw them abroad in those dresses. Elindoras was only half-listening, much more intent on an especially tricky part of putting in the sleeves.

Linwë had ordered the scribe to fetch something from Elindoras's bedroom, but the minutes were ticking by and he had not yet returned, though whenever Linwë called his name he answered with, "I'll be there in a minute."

"You'd better go see what's taking him," Linwë muttered. "Who knows what he's into now."

Elindoras laid aside her dress with an exclamation of disgust and hurried into the next room. As she pushed open the door she saw the scribe standing near her bed, holding her dagger in one hand—poised about one inch above his left arm. His eyes were screwed shut, and as she watched, too horror-stricken to speak, he jabbed at his arm and cut a long streak in it. He immediately dropped the dagger with a yelp, probably having cut deeper than he intended with his eyes shut.

Mablung burst into the room, Linwë close behind. The scribe sat on the ground howling, his hand clamped over his arm and blood oozing between his fingers.

"You fool!" Elindoras said, dragging him to his feet. She pried his hands away and glanced at the cut. "When you stab yourself with a dagger what do you think happens? You get hurt. What a ridiculous thing to do."

"Will it scar, will it scar?" the scribe asked anxiously between sobs.

"Don't worry," Linwë said impatiently, glancing at the wound. "You won't get a scar if we treat it right away."

Elindoras glanced in surprise at the scribe, who had burst into tears at this news.

"Linwë said it wouldn't scar," she told him.

"I want a scar," the scribe whimpered. "Like Mablung."

"Is that why you cut yourself?" Elindoras asked. "I expect so." She added, when the scribe didn't reply. "What some people will do for the sake of fashion! But you are Manwë's servant, and I will not return you to him covered with scars."

In spite of the struggles and protests of the scribe (Mablung held him down for them) Elindoras and Linwë bandaged his arm and threatened never to let him taste limpë again if he attempted to remove it. The scribe was cowed by their threats and did not touch his bandage; though he seemed to half-hope his arm might scar anyway.

But when the bandage was removed, the potion of Linwë's had done its work. Not the faintest pink or white line showed where the scribe had gashed himself. Needless to say, his devastation was complete.


End file.
